


Just What I Ordered

by phuckphace



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:09:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phuckphace/pseuds/phuckphace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times Pat ordered a drink from the hot bartender and one time he didn't.</p>
<p>Or the bar AU where Pat orders shots with ridiculous names from Johnny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just What I Ordered

1.

Pat’s pretty sure that it’s kinda obvious to everyone who knows him that his ability to feel shame is way lower than the average human’s. It’s not exactly something Pat’s _proud_ of, but well, yeah, it’s not really something he lets bother him either. It’s also something that proves quite useful on occasion. Like now, for example, when he slides up to the bar, tipsy enough to be completely shameless but not drunk yet, the sound of his sisters giggling ringing in his ears and orders a ‘slippery nipples’ from the hot bartender. His sisters have been teasing him all night about the way his eyes keep wandering to the guy serving drinks and trying to convince him that just because it’s Pat’s birthday he’s like _obligated_ to flirt with him or something.

It’s not until they dare him to order an embarrassing drink that he seriously considers it though. In all likelihood Hot Bartender is one hundred percent straight, and it’s Patrick’s birthday, no one wants to get shot down in embarrassing ways on their birthday. But ordering mildly suggestive shots is safe enough that he could pass it off as a stupid joke if the guy did turn out to be completely hetero or Pat could totally cash in on any interest Hot Bartender expresses if it turns out he isn’t. No harm, no foul either way really.

Only, as soon as the name of the shot slips out of his mouth, Hot Bartender’s whole face shuts down, just completely closes off and pinches up like Pat’s so much raw sewage or something. He turns to the rows of glass bottles behind the bar and begins pouring the butterscotch schnapps with a laser focus that’s scary intense.

Pat’s never seen a bartender pour a drink like they wanted to set fire to it with the power of their mind before, but Hot Bartender’s eyes are dark and angry and hot and the look is significantly less attractive than the bored, slightly judgmental one he’s been wearing all night, but it also turns Pat on significantly more, so seriously, fuck his life. 

Hot Bartender (and Pat should seriously stop calling him that, even in his head, since clearly the guy is an uptight douche) finishes pouring the shot and slams it down in front of Pat like the liquor somehow personally insulted him (possibly by kicking puppies or eating babies or something) and fixes a glare on Pat. “Six fifty.”

Pat’s not sure exactly how he can tell that the guy grits the words out through clenched teeth when they’re monotone and completely lacking inflection, but either way he gets the uncomfortable feeling that they’re supposed to be something like a growl. It makes Pat’s dick twitch; he’s perfectly fine with admitting that it’s not his finest moment. He digs a few crumpled bills out of his pocket, a five and two ones, and pushes them across the bar at the guy.

Hot Bartender scowls down at the wadded bills for a second before scooping them up and digging in his own pocket for change.

Pat shakes his head as he wraps his fingers around the shot glass and smiles what he hopes is a charming smile at the guy, because really, even if the guy can’t take a joke he is seriously like volcanically hot and Pat would like to not fuck up any slim chance he might have of convincing the guy to let Pat get his mouth around the guy’s cock. “Nah man, keep the change.”

The guy’s scowl deepens, and he pulls two quarters out of his pocket anyway. “No thanks. I don’t accept tips from guys like you.”

Pat can’t do anything but stare for several long seconds. Then he blinks slowly a couple of times and then stares some more, because, wait, what? Did this guy seriously just turn down a tip because Pat ordered a drink with a stupid sexual name? This can’t be the first time that’s ever happened to this guy. Maybe it’s because Pat’s a guy, and really _fuck_ this dude if he’s that big of a homophobe. Pat wants to say that out loud, or any other number of witty, biting comebacks, but what he finds himself doing instead is smiling obnoxiously and dropping the two quarters in the tip jar to his left and tossing the shot back. He pounds the empty glass on the bar top and makes an obscene moaning noise. “God, there’s just nothing better than getting your mouth on a nipple. Thanks man.” And with one last obnoxious grin he’s stalking off back to his still giggling sisters at the table.

2.

It takes another hour, two more of the fizzy pink drinks his sisters keep ordering, a lot of their laughter at Pat’s expense, and another of those withering glares from Hot Bartender to get Patrick back up at the bar. He’s drunk enough that he’s pissed off in that vague, hazy sort of way where he knows he _should_ be pissed and can even remember why, but he can’t hold on to the actual feeling for long enough because his brain feels like it’s floating on alcohol. Of course that means he has to go back up to the bar and fuck with the stupidly hot, yet apparently distressingly homophobic bartender again.

Pat waits until there’s only one or two people sitting at the bar, all with fresh drinks, before he approaches again. It takes him more than one try to actually get on the barstool, but Pat doesn’t know how many, and that should probably tell him that he’s in no shape to start a battle of wits with the guy serving drinks, but Pat figures, fuck it, it doesn’t take much in the way of sobriety to order the most suggestive drinks he can think of.

Hot Bartender stares at Pat on the barstool for a whole five minutes without walking over, probably hoping that Pat will just leave if he waits long enough, but obviously this guy doesn’t know that Pat can out stubborn anyone when he’s trying to be an obnoxious pain in the ass. Finally, he sighs deeply and pushes himself away from the far corner of the bar and approaches Pat. “What can I get you?”

It’s the same inflectionless tone from earlier, and Pat is seriously curious how the guy can manage to convey so much ‘go fuck yourself’ without ever changing his tone. Pat grins and leans forward, bracing both elbows on the bar. “How about a ‘deep throat?’”

An angry red flush steals its way over Hot Bartender’s cheeks and he turns away quickly to fix the drink. In bout thirty seconds he’s finished it and sliding it between Pat’s hands. The he’s leaning in close and his voice is a low and dangerous sounding hiss. “I know you think you’re funny, but you’re really not.”

Pat thinks that might get to him, that he might sputter and get flushed himself as he spit out some heated retort, if he wasn’t feeling so floaty, but as it is he’s just to into the way Hot Bartender looks when he’s pissed and too thrilled with the knowledge that _Pat’s_ the one that got a rise out of him to get angry right now. Pat offers what is no doubt a cheesy looking wink and grins. “Tha’s okay. I’ve got lots of other _assets_ besides my charm.”

Pat’s expecting more anger, more of that dangerous (sexy) almost, but not quite growl. He’s not expecting the eye roll and the quick snort of laughter. Or the slight defrosting of Hot Bartender’s tone when he says, “hardly.” It makes Pat smile, wide and genuine, if a little sloppy, this time and pick up his shot, saluting Hot Bartender with it. He tosses it back quickly then pushes the empty glass back across the counter. “Thanks man. It was good, but I’ve had better.”

Hot bartender collects the glass and shakes his head, expression slipping back into the bland one Pat was beginning to realize was his default. “That’s doubtful. Six fifty.”

Pat pulls a ten out of his pocket and slams it on the bar, walking away before the guy can refuse to take the tip again. And if he adds a little extra sway to his hips when he goes, well then he’s just going to blame it on that last shot, because seriously, what the fuck was even _in_ that?

3.

The next time Pat’s in the bar and he sees Hot Bartender (whose name is Johnny – which he figured out by hearing one of the other bartenders call him that, not by stalking him, thank you very much Erica) behind the bar, Pat just can’t help himself. He slides onto the first empty barstool he sees and waits. There are people everywhere, the crowd waiting to order drinks three deep in some places and the music is loud enough to make Pat’s insides feel like they’re vibrating. It’s a busy night and there’s two other people working the bar with Johnny and Pat’s afraid that one of them might come over to take his order before Johnny can. 

Pat’s sure that’s exactly what’s about to happen when a tiny blonde in a t-shirt with the bar’s logo starts toward him, but Johnny stops her progress with a hand on her elbow and a small shake of his head. Then he’s walking toward Pat with something that’s not quite fondness, not quite exasperation and not quite challenge on his face. He stops in front of Pat and crosses his arms over his chest. “What can I get you?”

Pat smiles, and that’s when he clues in that Johnny’s reactions to him so far might not have been so much because he wasn’t into Pat flirting, but maybe because he _was_. “A ‘screaming orgasm.’”

Johnny rolls his eyes and turns to make the drink. When he pushes it over at Pat he grins, sharp and a little mean. “Not likely. You’re not my type.”

Pat can’t help but laugh at that, loud and honest and it’s when he feels his dick thickening in his pants just from the way Johnny’s grin had mocked him way more than his words that Pat realizes he might be just a little fucked.

4.

After that it totally becomes a thing. Pat doesn’t order from any of the bartenders but Johnny and he spends way more time than he should cruising internet websites for sexy drink names. You would think someone who drinks as much as Pat does wouldn’t have to do such extensive research, but he’s gotten really picky about just which drinks he orders, only the ones with the right names, that get the right responses from Johnny will do.

Like on Saturday when he slides up to the bar and after Johnny’s customary “what can I get you?” Pat’s leaning in close and whispering that he wants a ‘pop my cherry’ right into Johnny’s ear. Pat would have never noticed the tiny shiver that raced down Johnny’s spine if he hadn’t been so close, but as it was he notices it and the blush that creeps down Johnny’s neck with little trouble. His dick is practically doing fucking _aerobics_ in his jeans at the sight.

Johnny turns his head slightly, so that his lips are brushing Pat’s ear when he whispers. “I’m probably a little too late for that one.” And then he’s pulling back abruptly and mixing Pat’s drink.

And Pat’s left leaning over the bar slightly, panting like he’s run a fucking marathon and seriously trying not to come in his pants like a fucking loser.

5.

Johnny’s responses are getting better. Or, at least they’re getting better for Pat’s jerkoff material. Because Johnny’s now perfected riding that edge between flirting and insulting that’s just little bit on the wrong side of insulting where every word out of his mouth has Pat heating up with a mixture of arousal and humiliation and his long dormant shame. He’s pretty sure everyone he knows thinks he’s an alcoholic because of how much time he’s been spending in the bar lately, but the truth is he craves those small little interactions with Johnny not the drinks. But the alcohol is a nice bonus; takes the sting out of not really, truly getting what he wants.

So it’s with this expectation of Johnny turning him inside out with just a few words that Pat sits at the bar and orders a ‘slow comfortable fuck.’

Johnny leans forward, braces both arms against the bar and puts his lips on Pat’s ear. “I’m sure there’d be nothing slow or comfortable about fucking you, Pat.” He nips Pat’s ear before pulling back, just a quick, fleeting press of teeth.

Pat barely tamps down the moan that threatens to spill out, and he can’t do anything about the way Johnny’s words and _his fucking teeth_ make him shudder hard enough to have him practically falling off the stool. But if he was worried about Johnny calling him on it, he shouldn’t have been, because Johnny’s already mixing his drink. Pat looks down at the bar top and digs in his pocket for some cash. He’s hard and aching, shuddery and desperate and he really can’t grin or wink or banter back like he normally would. He’s too close to breaking the unspoken rules and just begging Johnny to go home with him.

Pat’s just pulling a crumpled wad of bills out of his pocket when Johnny gets back with his drink. He goes to put the money on the bar, but Johnny stops him with a hand on his wrist. Johnny waits until Pat meets his gaze before he whispers low and even. “On the house.” Pat nods and doesn’t trust himself to speak, because seriously, what the hell does _that_ mean? Pat’s still just sitting there staring at Johnny after a few seconds and Johnny releases his wrist and says, “drink your drink Pat,” and turns away.

+1.

Pat’s got the perfect drink picked out to order when he slides up to the bar the next time, but instead of greeting him with his usual, “what can I get you?” Johnny’s sliding an already made drink in front of Pat. Pat looks t Johnny and raises an eyebrow.

Johnny shrugs and if Pat didn’t know better he’d say he looked a little nervous. “It’s a ‘bend over Shirley.’” When Pat just continues to stare at Johnny, Johnny continues, “I was inspired by your curly hair, and also there’s no drink named ‘I have a break in twenty minutes.’”

“Oh.” And then Pat process all of that and it’s amazing that he doesn’t pass the fuck out from the speed at which all the blood deserts his brain to storm his dick like it’s the beach at fucking Normandy. “Oh shit. Fucking finally.”

***  
Twenty minutes later, they discover that there’s really not enough room in the back storage room for Johnny to bend Pat over. But when Johnny presses him up against the wall, pushes his shirt up under his armpits and sucks both his nipples until they’re swollen and slick then drops to his knees and proceeds to suck Pat’s brain out through his dick, leading to Pat shouting his way through an orgasm loud enough to wake the dead, Pat figures they’re starting from the beginning and working their way back to that.


End file.
